


De Bon Matin

by HannahLydia



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Incest, Masturbation, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 02:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: “’liz’beth?” He croaked. He held her gaze, gauging her. It was clear from the way he struggled to focus that he was ready to fall victim to sleep once more, and yet he was here now, in this moment, and he wasn’t pulling away...AKA: Booker and Elizabeth are living together in Paris, and their new sleeping arrangements have set them on a very slippery slope.





	De Bon Matin

**Author's Note:**

> Set after [Encore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962723) and takes place a few months after [Couer Brisé](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962582). It'll become apparent that all my Paris-set works have French titles.

They had taken to sharing a bed. 

Whilst there was nothing inherently _wrong_ about the arrangement - he had his side and she had hers - there were underlying side-effects that proved otherwise. Timeless and trepidatious symptoms such as the synchronised racing of their hearts and the enthused twitch of their lips whenever they slid under the covers together amounted to one thing and one thing only: this was becoming a tantalisingly bad habit. 

It had started innocently enough. After Elizabeth had battled through countless nightmares and Booker had struggled through his fourth sleepless night, they had resolved that trauma and anxiety need not win. Just as they had in Columbia, they felt safer and stronger together. Neither liked bearing the weight of their memories alone. It presented a scenario, however, that teetered on the brink of what was and was not morally taboo, and in light of this they dutifully maintained a safe expanse between them night after night.  
It had been awkward at first, as it was bound to be, but it had become a routine alarmingly fast.  

Of all things, sleeping together like this reminded Booker of his penchant for gambling. Lying down beside a half-naked Elizabeth was no different to placing a bet - an unhealthy fix, but one he didn’t know how to get by without. There was no telling how the race was going to end, and perhaps he was only ever bound to lose because the odds were so stacked against him, but the _thrill_ of it– _god_. It was worth the risk. 

There were times when they were honest with themselves; times they realised that post-Columbia trauma was only a contributing factor to this nocturnal activity, and that really they just craved to be next toone another. They’d realise they were treading a line, dancing up to the edge of danger and waiting to see who was brave enough to risk it all. Then– denial would swiftly follow. They wanted to believe they were not in love, just as they wanted to believe they were not related, and yet they were both. The two should have been mutually exclusive - a coin could not land on both heads _and_ tails - and yet… they were both. Their feelings were a curse, and so was their blood.  

By day they tiptoed around the other as if walking on eggshells, never maintaining eye contact for long so as to avoid crashing into one another in an explosion of sexual tension.  
By night they closed the very distance they’d forged since waking, their backs to one another, bodies close and yearning, so near and yet so far. 

 

* * *

 

When summer came to Paris, it rolled in with a heatwave so thick and heavy that it saw the bed linen folded away, the concertina shutters folded back and both of them sleeping in as little as modestly possible. Booker alternated between a sleeveless union suit, unbuttoned to the waist, or a pair of ticking stripe pyjama pants, while Elizabeth adopted a lace slip of her own making, one that was shorter than was befitting a lady of the time.

They would take up their positions upon the bed as they did every evening, and Elizabeth would wait - however long it took - for Booker to drift off. Then, and only then, would she allow her longing eyes to wander over his bare torso, taking note of every trail of hair, every muscle, every scar. She would wait until the room was blanketed in darkness, for the throbbing ache at her core to strike between her thighs and then allow her hand to wander.   
She’d satiate herself just as she had during her agonising nights in her damp and dismal Rapture apartment without him– without even the _hope_ of him.    
It was no longer just a case of ‘want’ _._ She needed _._ She _craved._

One morning, when the humidity and heat had dissipated and a cool breeze was blowing in through the balcony doors, the balance shifted.  
The sun had only just risen and the larks perched on the window-box had woken Elizabeth from a deep sleep. She had rolled onto her back as she’d come to, and then, as her eyes fluttered open, she’d become caught up in a dreamy, sluggish daze. Everything was radiant and peaceful, reality was suspended, and her one waking thought was that she had _all she’d ever wanted_. She was safe, _alive_ , in a beautiful home in Paris and in bed beside the man she loved. (“ _What could be better than_ this _?”)_

Booker was fast asleep, his expression mellowed; at some point during the night he had turned onto his side so that he was facing her. His mouth was half-puckered, half-pursed, and Elizabeth found her eyes wandering from his lips to the spread of his mussed hair on the pillow. The steadily increasing sunlight illuminated the way in which his upper body gleamed with a thin layer of perspiration. He smelt of musk and leather and sweat. He smelt _divine_.    
Elizabeth tipped her head towards him, shamelessly inhaling deep. Then, as if she had tugged on some invisible string, his body began to seek out hers. 

Booker’s left arm fumbled across no-man’s-land in her direction - touched her arm, gently squeezed, then draped across her. The rest of him followed soon after. His head came to rest just beneath hers, nestled between her shoulder and her breast, and the action felt so natural, so _normal_ , that it didn’t even enter into Elizabeth’s head that they had never been this intimate. The early morning had woven some kind of spell, and she was swept along by it. There was no right or wrong at 7am, the world hadn’t woken up yet and neither had they. This was a waking dream, one she never wanted to end.  
Her hand instinctively rose to the nape of his neck and then upwards towards his crown, fingers combing through his fine chestnut hair. Still he did not wake. Booker’s nostrils flared before he exhaled heavily - the soft huff of his breath against her skin made the downy hairs on Elizabeth’s arm stand on end. His body twitched once with a mid-sleep tremor, and then he did something that brought her out of her semiconscious stupor all together. 

He _smiled_.

Elizabeth’s heart faltered, and then resumed beating at an accelerated rate. Looking at him through sleep-pinched eyes, at the face that was usually aloof even when resting, she examined him as if seeing him for the first time. His thick eyebrows were at half-mast, crow’s feet furrowed at the corners of his closed eyes. The birthmark on his jaw was almost lost in his growing stubble and his soft, tempting lips - lips that betrayed his indigenous heritage - were tipped upwards into an unmistakeable curve. It was the most peaceful she’d ever seen him. 

What was _happening_ here?   
He had shifted towards her as if magnetised, curled up beside her through no conscious thought of his own. What would he _say_ if he woke like this? Would he withdraw and act like it had never happened? Or was this the icebreaker they had both been secretly waiting for? 

Mind racing, a sudden thought struck Elizabeth cold and hard in the chest, agonising and wholly unwanted. What if– What if in Booker’s unconscious state he might believe he was in another place, in another time… with another woman?  
Her mother, no less.   
_Her mother._  
It was like being stabbed. It wasn’t enough to be faced with the realisation that he had been happy and in love once before, but to be reminded of who _with_ –   
Elizabeth’s body turned rigid, bile rising in her throat. An overwhelming sense of loss began to take hold of her, one she could not put into words. She hoped with every fibre of her being that her distress was groundless - that he had longed for _her_ and not a ghost from his past - and yet she knew better than to hope he dared act on feelings as sinful as theirs.  
Just when the crushing suspicion threatened to send her mad with despair– Booker opened his eyes.  
The effect was instantaneous. Face-to-face with those too-green eyes of his, Elizabeth’s mind went blank, and her anxiety ceased. 

It was clear that he was drunk with sleep - in as much of a waking trance as she had been - and yet he looked at her in a way that put Elizabeth’s previous suspicions to the back of her mind.  
He smiled wider. _At_ her. _**For**_ her. It was infectious. She returned the favour with an elated grin of her own. In that moment his heavily-lidded gaze betrayed a myriad of confessions, and showed neither surprise nor shame at having found himself spooning against her side. Before too long, however, sleep dispersed. Booker attempted to focus, expression sobering with consciousness.   

After slowly blinking a few times, shedding his foggy vision, he squinted up at her beneath a knotted brow. The remnants of a confused smile were still intact upon his face, a smile that became even more confused when he noticed the possessive drape of his arm across her body. A muscle in his hand jumped, but he did not retract. Not yet anyway.   
“’liz’beth?” He croaked. He held her gaze, gauging her. It was clear from the way he struggled to focus that he was ready to fall victim to sleep once more, and yet he was here now, in this moment, _and he wasn’t pulling away._  

Elizabeth’s hand dropped from the back of his head. She hoped that her cheeks were not as red as they felt. “Good morning,” She managed, and in a voice that sounded cooler than she felt. It was the only thing she could think to say.   
Booker looked at her for a moment longer, his head having barely risen from her chest. Then, as if realising she didn’t care and that he certainly didn’t, his pupils dropped along with his eyelids. He made a grunting noise as he settled back down - something that sounded like a very weak ‘ _oui’_ \- and then he was still _._  

A lark chirped. The net curtains at the window billowed in the light gust of air that drifted from the outside in. 

_We can be both_ , Elizabeth thought as she encircled her arms around him.   
_We can be anything we want to be._


End file.
